


The Best Armor

by musiquetta



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dorian does snow and feelings (both rather poorly), Fluff, Here Lies the Abyss Spoilers, M/M, Missing Moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiquetta/pseuds/musiquetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The snow won't stop falling and Cullen is in a good mood – these two things in conjunction ruin Dorian's day.  </p><p>That's how it all starts. Couldn't they have just kept playing chess?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since it won't stop snowing, I am coping by writing silly snowball fights that turn into gratuitous angst and feelings.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

 

 

The best armor is to keep out of range.  
– Italian Proverb

  

* * *

 

It was only ever a matter of time, Dorian supposes, with them being this far south and high up in the mountains, but still, he groans when he walks outside and sees the heaviest snow yet, covering the entire view under a massive white blanket.

 

Lone figures hurry through, treading single paths into the white pest – eager to continue their duties, now that the looming apocalypse had receded somewhat.

 

Reluctantly, Dorian joins them. There is after all a cozy library full of books eagerly awaiting his presence. It's up to the rim of his boots, but at least it's not getting any higher – at the moment.

 

“Unbearable,” he curses, as he drudges through the snow, with a colorful comment for every remotely friendly greeting that is offered to him. It was only a few steps outside the door and Dorian was already done with this natural phenomenon for years to come.

 

“How do people live with this every year?” he snaps at Cullen, who's standing on the stairs to the Keep and had the decency to greet him with an all too cheery 'good morning'.

 

“A better attitude, for starters.” Cullen says, shrugging, with that damned lopsided smile on his face, the one he always gets when he knows he made the winning move in their weekly game of chess.

 

Of course the Commander would be unfazed by this adversity, going about his duties as if it was a gentle spring day. If anything, he seemed in a better mood than Dorian had ever seen him – apart from victory celebrations and the times when he dealt out a particularly crushing defeat at chess.

 

“A good attitude hardly warms you.” Dorian says, rolling his eyes. He would have had a better comeback, but most of his concentration goes towards desperately trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

 

“And neither does a bad one, but that is not stopping you.” Cullen says, laughing, and looking better than any man has a right to in this dreadful weather. The red in his cheeks does nothing but add to his good looks, Dorian thinks bitterly.

 

The only thing keeping him from throwing a rude gesture in Cullen's direction was the fact that both his hands were clutching his flimsy coat, keeping it wrapped around his rapidly cooling body.

 

“Who knows, you might even come to enjoy the snow, if you gave it a try.” Cullen adds. Why on earth was the man so happy, considering the sky could once again drop on them any moment?

 

Dorian snorts. “I don't think so. That concept seems foolish, and better suited to those raised is the finer Ferelden environments – such as barns and sheds.” He snaps and stomps past the Commander, missing the man's sly grin and his crouch as he bends down as soon as Dorian's back is turned.

 

The mage has not gotten much further when a dull thud shakes his bare shoulder, followed by a burst of cold. A strangled gasp falls from his own mouth.

 

He whips around on his heel, the assailed patch of skin already aching with the cold, the snow seeping through his cloak almost unhindered.

 

“What” he yells, scaring a hurried messenger passing him by. “was that?!”

 

The Commander grins – grins?! He has the cheek to grin as the back of Dorian's shoulder slowly freezes into permanent immobility.

 

“That,” Cullen says, grinning. “was a snowball.”

 

“I know what it was, Commander, I was speaking figuratively.” Dorian hisses, teeth grinding. “I was questioning your motivation – which I can only assume must be sudden insanity.”

 

Cullen seems entirely unfazed, shrugging. “It was a demonstration, if you will. Of the fun that is possible.”

 

“Fun? My dear Commander, I know you are not the most well-read man but I assure you that fun is an entirely different emotion from the one I am currently experiencing.” With that, Dorian turns makes an attempt at a dignified exit.

 

Another thud. Another pang of cold.

 

This time is his leg is the assaulted party.

 

Dorian's eyes narrow.

 

“Fasta vass.” he hisses, twists and grabs a handful of snow. It hurls through the air, loosing half its substance on the way and hits the metal of Cullen's pauldron with a soft plod, disintegrating rather pitifully.

 

Cullen laughs, kneads the batch of snow in his hands into another missile. “That was terrible! You're technique is severely lacking.”

 

“I'll show you what's lacking!” Dorian yells, mushes together another batch of snow. This time, Cullen is prepared and retaliates.

 

Dorian's snowball once again shatters in a sad display of structural weakness – while Cullen's hits his chest, sending ice-cold fragments down his collar and the air out of his lungs.

 

Dorian grits his teeth; he is at a disadvantage, his enemy has clearly more experience, a higher skill level – if he is to win this, it will have to be by strategy.

 

His eyes search the courtyard – he smiles.

 

Another swoop, another mediocre attempt at a snowball – all while he retreats, with Cullen following him, like a good little soldier. Were his face not frozen solid he would smile at how well his plan worked.

 

One of his snowballs hits Cullen's face – quite by accident, too – loud, cruel laughter escapes Dorian's throat as Cullen shakes himself, spluttering snow.

 

The Commander's eyebrows draw together, his hands crushing the snow he's holding into a small, stiff ball of 'please don't'.

 

“That,” Cullen says, breath coming out in pants, fogging up the air in front of his face. “was a mistake.”

 

Dorian shakes his head, turns and runs, through the muddled paths of predecessors spanning the courtyard, his boots slipping in places where there's ice under the snow. Cullen is not too far behind him, Dorian knows he is – he needs to finish him, and soon.

 

Then – finally – the crumbling remnants of a wall, like there were at every corner in Skyhold – entirely covered in snow.

 

“Alright, alright!” Dorian yells, ducking behind the wall. “I know when to admit I'm beaten.”

 

“Do you now?” he hears Cullen leer, his hurried steps over the snow slowing down – the other man is close, Dorian needs to be ready.

 

“I do.” he says, flexing his frozen fingers, preparing for what was to come. “And right now I am not.”

 

Magic bursts from his fingers, blasting the snow off the wall.

 

He hears, rather than sees, his avalanche hit the other man – snow crunching, a cut-off gasp, snow cluttering down, making a mess of what was left of the untouched beauty outside their tracks.

 

As he peers over the edge, Cullen stands like a statue, visible only in small patches where the snow has fallen off.

 

A shudder frees Cullen from most of his icy prison. He's blinking – slowly, lashes rimmed with from out of his deeply red face, he looks dumbfounded, as if he's still caught in the middle of processing what just happened to him.

 

“I retract my earlier statement,” Dorian gloats, as he watches the other man shiver – so it was actually possible for Fereldens to suffer in cold weather, who'd have thought? “These conditions can be rather enjoyable.”

 

“You play dirty!” Cullen exclaims, wiping the snow out of his face. He actually sounds indignant – how adorable.

 

“I play by Tevinter rules!”

 

“Tevinter rules for snowball fights? Are you even listening to yourself?”

 

“Now, now, Commander, no one likes a sore loser.” Dorian teases, turns to leave.

 

Snow crunches behind him.

 

Before he can turn something solid and cold hits his back, the white ground races up at him, smacking him in a rush of cold.

 

Everything dulls as Dorian submerges into the snow.

 

He rolls onto his back, blinks the snow out of his eyes and looks –

 

looks at Cullen's grin, and an armful of snow, inches from his face.

 

“Yield!” he yells, three pitches higher than he knew he could. “By the Maker, I yield. Please.”

 

The Ex-Templar laughs, drops the snow aside. “Very well then. I shall bestow a mercy upon you that was never granted to my siblings.” Cullen drops the snow to the side, leaning back from where he was hovering over Dorian.

 

“Bless you for your leniency, then.” Dorian mutters, sitting up before his back becomes permanently attached to the ground. Cullen is kneeling next to him and Dorian's face almost knocks into the bulk of that massive chestplate the Commander insists on wearing everywhere. “How did you even move so fast with … that.” he says, rapping his knuckles against the metal.

 

“Sheer force of will.” Cullen chuckles and the warmth of his breath grazes Dorian's cheek. “And years of practice in my childhood. It's like swimming – you never forget how to do it.”

 

Then, Dorian is all too aware of the warmth from where their legs are touching.

 

Cullen tilts his head, smile slowly fading from his lips, as he looks down at Dorian.

 

There are snowflakes tangled in the stubble of his beard and in his eyebrows and the melting snow is making a mess of his groomed hair. There isn't a patch of skin visible that is not tinted a rather troubling shade of pink.

 

Dorian must be imagining the way his eyes dart, must be misinterpreting the way nervousness creeps into Cullen's features. He is acutely aware that his heart is beating too fast – the numbness in his limbs is manifold and not all is caused by the cold.

 

“Dorian, I – ”

 

Snow hits Cullen's face – again.

 

Dorian's hand remains raised as he puts on the most innocent look he can muster.

 

And if he tries hard enough, he will soon forget the minute frown on Cullen's face, before the Commander laughs again.

 

Cullen flops to the side, shaking his head. “You yield and then you attack; I should drag you in front of the Inquisitor for your war crimes.”

 

Just like that the moment is over and it's for the best, really, Dorian tells himself. He wouldn't want the Commander's poor judgment of his character get in the way of their tentative friendship.

 

(Dorian himself is to blame, no doubt. The flashy pieces of his armor do distract from his personal flaws.)

 

“What in the Maker's name is going on here?” a heavily accented voice startles them both out of their awkward eye contact.

 

Cassandra stands nearby, expression on the confused side of annoyed, for a change, eyes darting over the surroundings.

 

Per Dorian's doing there is not a patch of undisturbed snow around them. If Dorian didn't know better, he would suspect some of the Inquisitor's mounts escaped the nearby stables and went on a terrifying rampage.

 

“Well, I assure you, it's not what it looks like.” Dorian teases.

 

“Really? Because it looks like two of the most important men of the Inquisition are making utter fools of themselves.”

 

“So be glad it is not what it looks like, Seeker.” Dorian shrugs, earning a laugh from Cullen. There's even a curl at the edge of Cassandra's lips, if his senses did not leave him entirely.

 

The Seeker shakes her head as she stomps off, leaving them once again down in the snow and still close, close enough that their legs are touching.

 

Cullen sighs deeply. “Let's get ourselves inside, before we truly freeze to death.” he says, standing with easy grace, extending a hand towards the mage.

 

Dorian shakes his head. “There is no hope for me, not anymore. I shall never be warm again.”

 

Cullen laughs and grabs his hand anyway.

 

Dorian's knees are shaky as Cullen pulls him to his feet, and he sways into the man's side. Cullen catches him, one arm wrapping around Dorian's shoulders to steady him.

 

“Maker's breath,” Cullen says, finger's brushing along Dorian's upper arm, then his shoulder. “Is this coat made of woven nothing? How do you endure it?”

 

Dorian huffs as his aching legs protest their joint movement towards the tavern. “As I do everything, Commander; with grace and charm.”

 

* * *

 

The fire in the tavern is crackling and Dorian almost falls over his numb feet trying to get to the fire, startling the few patrons who had not been deterred by the storm.

 

“There may be hope for me yet.” Dorian says as he holds his hand close to the flame, their heat sending a warm tingling through his fingers.

 

No reply comes.

 

Dorian looks over his shoulder, finding the room empty of Cullen. The bard sitting in the corner – what was her name again? – looks up from her meal and smiles at him.

 

He returns the smile and ignores the pang of – regret? Guilt? Best not to dwell on it. His last attack may have been cold – Dorian chuckles. Cullen might have laughed at that pun, Maker bless his simple sense of humor – but leaving without a word was just plain rude. Typical Ferelden.

 

What does he care? He has a fire now and he's already on the way to feeling warmer than he has the entire blighted day, if not week.

 

“And now get out of my kitchen, you're dripping all over the place!” the cook shrieks and next there's the sound of metal connecting with wood, as Cullen walks out of the kitchen behind the counter, backwards, armor connecting with the door. He turns and holds two steaming tankards, a smile spilling over his lips as he sees Dorian.

 

He sets the second mug down on the table, sinking back into the chair with a loud sigh while holding onto his own. “I promise this is the best part about the snow.”

 

Dorian warily eyes the liquid. It's a suspicious shade of white, but gives off a heavenly smell. Not that he would ever admit that. “Haven't you put me through enough for today?” he complains, as Cullen stretches out in the chair. Dorian takes a couple of moments to inspect the – milk with something stirred in, no doubt before taking a sip.

 

As the – honey is involved here, too, some herbs no doubt – meets his lips, and the heat spreads from the inside out, it's all he can do to keep from letting the sigh that's building in his throat.

 

He feels a pair of expectant eyes resting on him.

 

As he looks up, Cullen is watching him, unblinking, gauging his reaction, his own mug clutched to his chest. His hair is beyond all hope, probably from running his hand through it in a futile attempt to fix it. Only little red is left in his cheeks and – Maker's Breath, he was staring.

 

Dorian swallows heavily. “It's, ah … good.” he says.

 

Cullen's eyes widen almost comically. “Really? Not a jab, not a qualifier? I'm baffled.” He stretches back against the back of his chair.

 

Dorian clears his throat, straightens his shoulders. “Well, for something of Ferelden at least.”

 

“There we go.” the Commander says, rolling his eyes, with the smile never leaving his face.

 

“I mean, relatively speaking it is good. I have been working on adjusting my judgment to the local cuisine. In Minrathous it would have been a clear case of 'Are you trying to poison me? Get out of my sight!', but,” Dorian shrugs and lifts the mug. “for these parts, it's almost heavenly.”

 

Cullen chuckles, gently shaking his head. “Then I am glad we are here so you will not have to chase me away.” He empties the mug and sets it aside, letting out a contented sigh. “You know, it always tastes best after snowball fights, I've found.”

 

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Do you mean to tell me that a romp in the snow changes the taste of honeyed milk?”

 

“I know how it sounds, but, ah.” Cullen shakes his head, looking contemplative. “When I was a boy,” he starts then, and Dorian has to roll his eyes. Tales of domesticity, wonderful. “me and my sister, we would always play in the snow for as long as Mother would let us. And after she had chased us inside, she would make us this. It's the only time we ever drank it really, and it tasted just like … ”

 

Cullen trails off, looking into the fire. He shakes off the last of the cold outside leaves him with a shudder. “I don't know. It tasted good. I tried to drink it, years ago, in Kirkwall but it just didn't taste right.”

 

Cullen's eyes meet his, with his mouth curled into a shy smile. A blush creeps onto Cullen's features and another Dorian from another time in his life wonders if there was a message there, some grand underlying metaphor, something between the lines for him to find – that the Commander was trying to gauge his reaction to something, that this was a confession of some sort, but this Dorian, the Dorian of now and here knows that's silly.

 

“Maybe the farmer's in the Free Marshes just feed their cows strange hay.” Dorian suggests through the lump in his throat, taking another sip from his milk

 

Cullen nods solemnly, a smile tethering on the edge of his lips. “Maybe that's it. Anyway I – uh. I haven't had a snowball fight since I left my home to join the order a terribly long time ago.” He laughs nervously. “I hope I did not batter you too terribly. It may have been the most fun I've had in years and I would hate to have had it at your expense.”

 

Dorian huffs, thinking back to bright eyes looking down at him with enough affection to make his stomach turn. He smiles at the apprehension evident on the Commander's face.

 

“We're quite alright, Commander. No harm done.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you guys are the worst. I've been flailing over all the nice things you've been saying, I can barely cope. Well, I cope by writing more. It makes my day to know you guys enjoy this.
> 
> Anyhow, on we go. 
> 
> (Spoilers for/References to Here Lies the Abyss. Wasn't that mission just a boatload of fun.)

 

Adamant is won.

 

The demon army is diminished, the Wardens are free from the spell – yet Dorian's heart is still racing a mile a minute. His knees are burning from when they hit the ground as he stumbled out of the Rift and the Fade clings to him, haunts him, clawing at his mind.

 

The Inquisitor has said her part and walks down from the podium, joining her companions.

 

There's an angry line etched deeply into Denna's forehead as she storms past them.

 

The betrayal of the Wardens struck her deeply. Dorian practically heard her teeth grinding as she offered a chance for redemption, more out of necessity than conviction.

 

Dorian follows.

 

Vivienne walks next to him, standing tall as usual, but she holds herself a little too upright, shoulders stretching her robes a little too tight. Dorian recognizes 'trying too hard' blindfolded and in the dark.

 

He knows Varric must be following them, but doesn't dare to look back, doesn't want to risk facing the dwarf, scared of the loss he knows he'll find there.

 

On the outside of the fortress, the battle is finished as well and their arrival does nothing to alleviate the crushing silence surrounding them.

 

The smoking ruins of battle machinery fill the air with an acrid stench, mingled with the smell of death that would linger here for weeks to come.

 

Figures hurry along, carrying wounded soldiers, covering up the dead. No one meets their eyes.

 

There's tension in the air, hanging between the pieces of chaos left by war.

 

“If it means anything at all,” Dorian says when he can't take the blighted silence anymore. “I think you were right to grant the Wardens a chance at redemption. We have all done foolish things before.”

 

He sees Denna take a deep breath; the only proof that she listened at all. The First Enchanter is not so subtle in her reaction. Dorian is prepared for the condescension in Vivienne's eyes.

 

“You make it sound like they ruined their favorite dressing gown.” She huffs. “Then again that might be an equally horrid offense in your homeland.”

 

Dorian opens his mouth for a retort, and closes it.

 

Not the time, not the place, perhaps. Not while the blood of the sacrifices still dries on the blackened stones of Adamant.

 

They walk after their Inquisitor in silence, over a seemingly never-ending battlefield.

 

“Darling?” Vivienne addresses the elf after minutes pass, Dorian's hackles raise at a moment's notice. “Not that I am not delighted to follow wherever you lead us but – where are you leading us?”

 

Dorian looks up. He hadn't really been paying attention to where they were going, eyes trailing the heel of the Inquisitor's boot, while decidedly not thinking about the events of the day and what tragedies may yet be unknown to them

 

(He was in the middle of reciting his family tree and had gotten as far back as the beginnings of the Storm Age when Vivienne spoke.)

 

The Inquisitor stops, raising her head of dark brown hair to look around. She turns to them, eyes darting around nervously. “Ah, crap – I didn't think – ”

 

“Our forces should be heading back to the encampment.” Vivienne suggests, face impassive. She turns in the direction where the tents are a blur of beige between red rock and waits for the elf to take the lead again. “We will be of use there, I imagine.”

 

The camp is hectic, and Dorian welcomes the noise. It's much easier to push down his own thoughts when there's people pushing past, almost stepping on his toes.

 

It's positively chaotic there and Dorian knows that there's another battle before them, of a different kind but no less punishing.

 

“Take them to the healer,” a familiar voice booms from around the corner – strained, weak, but Dorian would know it everywhere. “and you two, with me.”

 

He's alive.

 

Not that Dorian had dwelt on other possibilities. Much.

 

And they need orders – they came for orders, didn't they? Cullen would know what to do. Dorian takes two steps to where he heard Cullen's orders, catching a glimpse of blond hair moving past the tents.

 

Two soldiers in tow, the Commander of the Inquisition steps out betweens the tents, standing mere feet from Dorian.

 

“Dorian.” the Commander exhales as he stops moving. The scowl that had been twisting his features eases.

 

He takes a hesitant step. The second is determined, the third gets him there and his arms close around Dorian, pulling him into the fur of Cullen's coat.

 

The man smells of fire and blood, of sulfur and Dorian has no time to talk himself out of resting his hands at Cullen's sides.

 

His feet touch solid ground for the first time since the Rift had swallowed them whole – he had been walking on ash and dust.

 

Someone clears their throat.

 

Dorian opens his eyes. Cullen lets go.

 

They both take a forceful step back.

 

The faces of Cullen's soldiers behind the man are riddled with mirth – the alarm Dorian feels he sees echoed in the Commander's eyes.

 

“Your Worship, I – ” Cullen stammers, turning to the Inquisitor standing a few feet away. She's grinning, too, the traitor.

 

“So nice of you to notice me.” Denna teases and Dorian gives her an acidic look.

 

“I heard of the Rift opening,” the Commander continues, blushing furiously. “I saw the dragon and I thought – I, I feared – ”

 

“Don't exhaust yourself, Curly.” Varric says, smirking. It almost reaches his eyes. “We're glad you're alive, too.”

 

The Commander bows and hurries off then, throwing a gruff “Soldiers!” over his shoulders. His men followed, amusement lighting up their weary faces.

 

Dorian glares as Varric opens his mouth. “Not a word, dwarf.”

 

Varric shrugs, but the smile stays. “I got nothing to say.”

 

“I don't know,” Denna says, grinning at him. “I could think of a thing or two.”

 

“If we're quite finished dwelling on these important happenings,” Vivienne interrupts, face betraying none of her thoughts on the matter. “might I direct the attention towards the victim's of today's battle still in need of assistance.”

 

Bless that woman and her utter indifference to human relationships, Dorian thinks, as he follows a few steps behind the others.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The battle is won, but the wounds go deep.

 

Dorian helps where he can, until he no longer trusts his mind and magic to heal right.

 

In the small hours of the night he makes his way to the center of the camp, where the tents of the Inner Circle are set up.

 

Candlelight still pours out of the seams of some them, and Dorian slows down, eyes gliding over the tent of the Commander, still alight, of course.

 

His mind had lingered on their earlier meeting, and he loathed to admit it. He understood Cullen, of course. The chaos of the day had set them all on edge.

 

There was no reason, a simple embrace should stand between them.

 

Dorian walks past the fire burning in the middle, almost at the entry in his tent, when he hears movements behind him.

 

Because fate is cruel, it's Cullen's tent that opens, revealing the Commander, still in full armor. The fire lights up his face, but not the dark circles under his eyes.

 

Still, tension seeps out of the Cullen's face, softening the hard lines of his eyebrows, his mouth.

 

“Hello, Commander.” Dorian says with a smirk, turning to face the man. “Fancy seeing you again.”

 

Cullen blushes, fumbles with the stack of papers he's holding. “Yes I, ah – I am sorry if I overstepped, earlier, I – I had heard rumors, terrible things. I had feared the worst and had no time, to search for answers.” He runs his free hand through his hair.

 

“You didn't.” Dorian says. “Overstep, that is. You merely caught me off guard – which does not happen often, but it hasn't exactly been a normal day.”

 

“You're right there.” the Commander says, a weary smile tugging at his lips. “And I am glad to hear it. Now I have to – ” He holds up the papers in his hand and inclines his head.

 

He turns to leave, rubbing his free hand over his eyes as his steps are a hair's breadth away from stumbling.

 

“Commander?” Dorian calls out after him. Cullen turns to look back.

 

“Where are you going?” Dorian asks, as he follows Cullen the few steps he had taken. They're standing in front of each other, and Dorian sees Cullen swallow.

 

“I – uh, I need to deliver these reports, Warden Alistair will need them to – ” Cullen stammers.

 

“Alistair is asleep.” Dorian interrupts. Cullen's stern face falters. “He's asleep,” he repeats, “along with everyone else whose pain or watch do not keep them awake.”

 

Cullen tears his eyes off of him, taking in the dark, quiet camp. “Oh, Maker's Breath, what time is it?” he breathes, rubbing his forehead. “I got so caught up in writing, I must have forgotten the time.”

 

“And now it's late. Late enough that no one will judge you if you turn in for what is left of the night.” Dorian says with fond exasperation, giving the Commander's arm a sympathetic squeeze.

 

The gesture is symbolic, of course. There's steel between them.

 

Grime and dried blood darken the silver of his armor, Dorian realizes as his fingers touch the plating. This mad man must have sat down in his tent to work the second the last unfortunate soul tried to send him to rest.

 

“I … see.” Cullen says, eyes darting nervously.

 

“Commander.” Cullen looks at him. “There's a thousand ways today could have gone worse; that it hasn't we owe in large parts to you.”

 

Cullen takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering close for a moment. “You're one to talk.”

 

“True.” Dorian agrees, earning an amused eye-roll from the commander. “But seeing how we agree that we're two men who did an excellent job today … what's keeping you from your beauty sleep?”

 

“Hard to say.” Cullen sighs, staring off into the distance. “There's so much more to do, but I can't do it tonight.”

 

“But you'll certainly try, I'd say.” Dorian teases, ignoring the little flutter in his stomach as Cullen smiles.

 

“Well, Leliana always says I have trouble letting things go.” the man admits.

 

“Ah. Since you're standing here in the middle of the night because you were finishing up paperwork, I'd say she's wrong.”

 

Cullen chuckles. “Don't mock me, I've had a long day.”

 

“I haven't had the best day either, you know. For example, earlier I had the most gorgeous man in my arms and then we were rudely interrupted. Also, there was a dragon, but, well.” Dorian revels in the play of emotions on the Commander's face.

 

“I suppose, ah,” Cullen stammers, his earlier blush returning. He lifts his hand, gloved fingers close enough to almost brush the bare skin of Dorian's arm, before letting it sink again. “I mean, we could always – ”

 

“Always what?” Dorian asks, studying the Commander's flustered demeanor. By the Maker, the man might just be the most precious thing Dorian ever laid eyes on. He can't help leaning towards the Cullen, just a miniscule movement; it could barely count as encouragement.

 

Cullen laughs nervously and places a tentative hand on Dorian's waist. Dorian goes willingly as he tugs him forward, lifts his arms to wrap them around the bulk of Cullen's armor, metal pressing against the mage's bare arms.

 

Dorian feels gloved fingertips curling against his back as Cullen's warm breath grazes his neck.

 

The mage moves back again, and Cullen lets him, but catches one of his hands to hold onto him, spoiling Dorian's plan to get away before he holds on too tight to ever let go.

 

“Today,” Cullen says, as their eyes meet again. “would have been our weekly chess match.”

 

Dorian is painfully aware of his fingers moving along the smooth leather of Cullen's gloves as their hands clasp each other.

 

“I suppose we'll have to postpone it.” Dorian says, “unless you're hiding a chess set under that bulking armor of yours.” he adds hastily, with humor, as much as he can muster.

 

Cullen laughs. “I'm afraid not, but I'll consider it, for future travels.”

 

They're still holding his hand, and Dorian wonders how much longer Cullen would hold on, if Dorian would let him.

 

He'd rather not find out.

 

No matter what the answer was, it promised pain somewhere down the road.

 

Dorian breaks their eye contact, disentangling their fingers. “Get some sleep, Commander.” he says, taking a determined step back.

 

“At your command, Ser.” Cullen says, bowing slightly, never taking his eyes off Dorian's.

 

He turns and leaves then, leaves Dorian standing there in that spot, for far too long after.

 

Dorian blinks heavily and rubs his forehead before stalking to his tent and ducking in.

 

In the dark, on his bedroll, he lets out a long sigh.

 

“Maker's breath, Dorian.” he murmurs. “What are you doing with that man?”

 

Another sigh. “Now I sound like my father.”

 

He grimaces.

 

“Which means that demon had a point.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, well. This would be no fun if Dorian just stopped aggressively not caring about his feelings.
> 
> Thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life has zero respect for my fanfic updating duties, apologies. 
> 
> I'm posting two chapters at once now, though. Warning, the ending has elements of a panic attack, if you want to avoid that.

 

“There you are.” a voice drawls behind him. Dorian looks up from where was glaring holes into the clear mountain air. Instead he turns to find the Inquisitor shuffling onto the balcony outside the tower. “After I didn't find you in your usual haunts, I feared I missed a Rift opening up and swallowing you whole.”

 

The elf drags herself up to sit on the wall, letting her feet swing as she held onto the ledge.

 

“Really?” Dorian raises an eyebrow. “You're joking about that? After everything that happened at Adamant?”

 

Denna shrugs.

 

Dorian turns to hide the grin creeping onto his face. Instead he looks back to the vast abyss at their feet. His train of thought is thoroughly ruined and he should probably thank her for that.

 

“I'm just making sure everyone is getting ready for our trip to the Storm Coast.” Denna explains.

 

Dorian makes a face. “I am ready, your Worship, but if you want to drive me away, just tell me and quit breaking my spirit by dragging me through rain and snow.”

 

“Please, if I wanted to get rid of you, I'd assign you to the lucky soldiers combing the Fallow Mire for supplies.” Denna says, unimpressed by Dorian's scowl and the shudder rolling down his spine at the memory of the swamp. He lost two robes to the incessant mud there.

 

“Speaking of driving away,” the Inquisitor continues. “what drove you from your cozy chair? Have you finally grown tired of scoffing at every book we have? Or has the spectacular view drawn you out?” she teases, jerking her head in the direction of the mountains surrounding them.

 

“No, nothing quite so poetic, I'm afraid.” Dorian sighs. “There has been a rather hovering presence there, in the past few days.” he complains.

 

Denna lets out a sigh. “Really, Dorian? Again with the crows? I though Leliana was keeping them better in check now.”

 

“It's not the crows.” Dorian says with a grimace. “I'd prefer the crows, actually. You can shoo them off with a broom. I suppose our Commander would not take that too kindly.”

 

Denna tilts her head, then laughs. “No, I suppose he wouldn't, though I would pay to – wait, what? Does that mean Cullen is the one doing the hovering?”

 

Dorian lets out a long-suffering sigh. He regrets his words already. “You could say that he is.” He admits, before he sees at the look on Denna's face. Somewhat startled, a little amused. Why hadn't he come up with an excuse? “For a given definition of hovering, at least.” he admits.

 

The concern on Denna's face gives Dorian a sense of dread. “That so?” she asks. “Then give me the definition of hovering.”

 

“Oh, must I?” Dorian complains before he can stop himself.

 

Denna raises one of her eyebrows, the one with the vicious-looking scar. If she didn't already have suspicions, now she surely did.

 

“He's been here a couple of times and it's distracting. End of story.” he sums up the past days in a impressively sweeping oversimplification, hoping it would satisfy her.

 

“How many times?”

 

Dorian grits his teeth. No such luck then. “A few.”

 

“I want a number, Dorian.”

 

The mage exhales. “Two. He's been here two times.”

 

Denna tuts, letting the silence stretch for a few moments. “In how many days?”

 

“Does it really matter how many – ”

 

“Dorian.”

 

“Five!” Dorian admits finally, throwing up his hands. “He's been here two times in the last five days and it's driving me up the wall.”

 

The Inquisitor looks up into the sky, contemplating. “I think I've been to see you … six times in as many days. Seven, if you count the time I was hiding from Mother Giselle. Are you going to try and shoo me off with a broom soon, then?”

 

Dorian narrows his eyes at her, her white teeth bared in a grin. “Do not think I won't shove you off this balcony; it might doom this world but it will make my afternoon so much more pleasant.”

 

Denna laughs and for a split second Dorian regrets that she had lost the initial wariness of their first meeting in Redcliffe. He should have cultivated that 'scary magister' image, prevented people from getting close to him.

 

It had gotten him in this predicament in the first place.

 

“Or you could just tell me what our dearest Commander has done to you?” Denna suggests and Dorian doesn't like the grin on her face. “Don't spare the gritty details, I promise that the verdict of the Inquisition will be swift and just, as usual.”

 

Dorian leans forward to rest his elbows on the balcony railing, scowling at the snow. “He has done nothing, he just came by to talk.” The Inquisitor's face tells him that she does not appreciate the tragedy of the matter. But she doesn't know the grisly truth yet. “The other time he brought me a book he got from Maker knows where. It was really good, too. Better than half the nug dung you call your library.”

 

Still no sympathy for his plight on her face. “I see.” Denna says. “Then he leaves me no choice but to have his pretty head on a spike for the sport of Leliana's crows.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

The elf taps her foot against the railing, drumming her fingers. Dorian gave her a sidelong glance. “No, but truly, what caused the balcony exile then?” she finally bursts out. There's concern on her face, too and it makes Dorian's skin crawl.

 

“An epiphany of ghastly proportions.” he deadpans.

 

“Dorian.”

 

“You're not going to let this go, are you?” Dorian sighs.

 

“What do you think?”

 

He sighs. What use was a friends? All they seemed to do was disrespect your primal need to distance yourself from personal connections and complicated emotions?

 

“Fine. The problem is – not that I blame him, of course, I mean, who wouldn't?” He's babbling, how disgraceful. “We may have spent a lot of time together and he may have, uh … developed feelings for me.” he finishes off hastily.

 

There's a moment of silence.

 

Then, echoing through the vale below them, a guffaw, as Denna clings onto the railing, to keep herself from falling to her death.

 

“That is your epiphany?” she asks, little chuckles still ravaging her body. “Your _recent_ epiphany?”

 

“I'm not quite sure I get the joke.” Dorian spits out, fingernails scratching over the cold hard stone of the railing as he tightens his fists.

 

“It's just that – have you seen him? When he looks at you? Have you seen the way he smiles when you walk into the room? And the hug after Adamant – Creators! You should have seen his face when he saw you, like Corypheus himself laid down arms in front of him, he was so hap– Dorian?”

 

Dorian made it about halfway to the door, away from this; he never should have brought it up in the first place.

 

He almost makes it through the door when Denna catches up to him. “Where are you going? Are you alright?”

 

“Fine, actually. Ever so glad I am amusing you.” Dorian throws over his shoulder, ready to leave this damned day behind him.

 

“Dorian, wait.” Lithe fingers grab his sleeve. Reluctantly, Dorian let himself be pulled around. “I'm sorry I laughed, I just – I wasn't making fun, I was just – I don't know. Relieved? You looked so worried earlier. I thought something bad had happened.”

 

Dorian huffs. “Hasn't it?”

 

Denna raises both her eyebrows. “Uh, there's Rifts all over the place spouting demons, an arch demon and an ancient magister are out to kill us – so, comparatively speaking, I'm gonna go with … no?”

 

Dorian rolls his eyes. “You Southerners. No flair for the dramatic.”

 

He leaves the balcony before he's going to do something dumb, like actually talking to someone.

 

The rush of warmth is astonishing. How long had he been outside?

 

Near silent footsteps follow him down the stairs. He was never making friends again.

 

“Wait, where are you going?” She catches up to him, slim frame easily fitting in the space between him and the thick castle walls. Again with the hovering – was this how people in the South express caring? By hovering?

 

“My rooms. While I desperately do need a drink, that barn you call tavern only serves dreadful ale and my day has been dreary enough.”

 

Denna jumps ahead of him. “There may be drinks in my room.” she says.

 

“Not one of those bottles you insist on digging out of the mud, is it?”

 

Denna huffs. “As a matter of fact, it's wine from one of the finest vineyard in Orlais. I nicked it when Josephine wasn't watching.” She grins hopefully. “So … friends?”

 

“More situational benevolence, but lead the way.”

 

“Rude.”

 

* * *

 

The Inquisitor's quarters are warm and big. The couch they're sitting on might easily be the most comfortable piece of furniture Dorian sat on ever since leaving Minrathous. Denna is currently kneeling on said piece of furniture, caught in the middle of re-enacting one of the raunchier stories from her life with clan Lavellan.

 

“ – and that's when the Keeper walks onto the clearing and the whole forest goes quiet. And I mean everyone and every animal in this Creators-forsaken forest. Not even the damn crickets were chirping and they ne- _ver_ shut up in that place. And the Keeper just shakes her head and says: 'What would your ancestors say if they could see you now?' And then someone just yells: “Probably 'What is that Halla doing in the dress?'”

 

Dorian chuckles. “I see your namedays were never a dull affair. Didn't you get into trouble?”

 

Denna waves, taking another sip from her glass. “She yelled at me for a bit, something about Fen'Harel dragging me into the night, but I hardly heard her. I still had too much of that candle wax stuck in my ears. But, anyway,” she says, drawing up her knees, looking at him with big eyes. “there's, ah, something I want to ask … about earlier.”

 

“Ugh.” Dorian drops his head against the soft cushioning behind him. “You're just going to ruin my evening again, aren't you?”

 

The Inquisitor looks contemplative for a moment before shrugging. “I have three more bottles of this.” she says, swirling the wine in her glass around for emphasis.

 

Dorian tilts his head, contemplating his options. Another endless spell of that dreadful Fereldan mud water? Or quite possibly the most ill-advised, emotionally compromising conversation he had in years.

 

He stretches out the hand with his glass as Denna is about to pour herself more wine. “Ruin away.”

 

The Inquisitor smiles, clinking their freshly filled glasses together.

 

“So,” she says. “why is Cullen's … crush on you a bad thing?”

 

Dorian stops drinking mid-sip, grimacing as he swallows. “Really? Just like that? Not even a little bit of foreplay?”

 

“Sort of pointless, I think.”

 

“Good for you, I guess.”

 

Denna makes a face.

 

Dorian chuckles. “Anyways it's not bad it's just … complicated. You see, it's not done, in Tevinter.”

 

“Foreplay?”

 

“Crushes.” Dorian says. Then, he frowns. “Although, now that I think about it, a point could be made for both – never mind. What I mean to say is back home all … relations between men are for pleasure and nothing else.”

 

Realization dawns on Denna's face. “Oh. So you're not completely averse, you just … don't want any feelings involved?” she concludes.

 

“No. Yes. No, I mean – I do … ” His throat rebels a little at the next words, but the wine eases the way. “Want feelings involved.”

 

“And so does Cullen?” Denna asks.

 

Dorian opts for burying his face in his goblet. “Apparently?” he mumbles into the wine. Maybe if he drank faster, he could attribute the blush on his cheeks to the alcohol.

 

Denna nods along for awhile, taking another sip. “So, to summarize: you both want the same thing – and from each other, too – but somehow this is the worst thing that happened to you since what? Snow?”

 

“Well, when you say it like that it sounds stupid.” he says, staring off into the distance.

 

“Yes, well, it does. Doesn't mean it is.” Denna shrugs. “But what _is_ the problem, if you don't mind my asking?”

 

“I do mind a lot, actually, but,” Dorian sighs and puts his glass down on the table. “I can't help but feel that he seems a little too … eager. Too sincere. Too – ”

 

“Good to be true?” There's understanding in her voice, how dreadful.

 

Dorian takes a deep breath. “Still sounds daft, I know. This is the Commander we're talking about. On the rather impressive list of his talents insincerity doesn't seem to have a place.”

 

Denna smiles ruefully. “You don't owe me an explanation, Dorian. I didn't bring you here for that. I'm the last person to be giving advice so I won't, but,” she sighs. ”if it makes any difference; he takes better care of himself these days, you know? Takes time off, when he needs it.”

 

“So?” Dorian asks, keeping his tone non-committal.

 

“So I don't even know how you got him to take off time for chess _once_ – much less every week. And now he takes off nights, when he needs it. He used to collapse before he did that, you know.”

 

Dorian snorts and focuses on the deep red liquid swaying in his glass. “You're not suggesting the two might be connected?” he asks, aiming for nonchalance, and suceeding, too, if it wasn't for the slight tremble clinging to the words.

 

Denna shrugs. “I don't know why he didn't do it before and why he's doing it now but – he's better. Cassandra used to worry a lot more.”

 

“Cassandra? Worrying?” Dorian diverts, not knowing what to do with the sharp tug that thought gave his heart – as if an hour of chess a week could change someone.

 

Leading an army, seeing it grow, building something – that could change a person.

 

Playing chess once a week? Not so much.

 

Then again, Cullen had mentioned their chess sessions, after their hug in the middle of the night. And when he did, his words had held a hint of – anticipation? Reverence?

 

Maker's Balls, he was going to make himself sick.

 

“Yes, Cassandra. She worries. Quite a lot actually.” Denna mumbles, face tucked against the cushioning of the backrest. “What I'm saying here is that you might be good for each other, if you wanted that to happen.”

 

He half-heartedly hopes for more, letting the silence stretch and stretch – until he hears a faint snore. He turns to look and finds the Inquisitor sleeping, head twisted at a weird angle.

 

“Herald of Andraste.” he murmurs to himself as he pulls a blanket over her lithe frame.

 

Maybe the Storm Coast would clear his mind somewhat.

 

* * *

 

“No, look.” Dorian hears the Commander's voice through half-open doors of Cullen's office. “I really do not have time for this! Go and figure it out!”

 

The door flies open and a soldier appears, jumping as he sees Dorian standing in front of him.

 

“Fix this!” the Commander yells after the man, sending another flinch over his face as he hurries along the battlement.

 

Normally, Dorian would leave, but Cullen already spotted him and is currently staring right at him in surprise.

 

“Bad time?” Dorian asks before Cullen has a chance to say anything. The man stands in the middle of his room, looking incredibly lost – and tiny, without the bulk of his armor, for once.

 

There's a considerable slump in his shoulders, Dorian notices.

 

“Is there ever a good time these days?” Cullen says with a breathless chuckle. “Come in, please. What can I do for you?”

 

As he ventures into the room, it occurs to Dorian that he has never been here before nor had he planned to come here.

 

It was rather that he wandered about after sleeping off the strain of the Storm Coast.

 

He is always restless in the days after he returned from travels with the Inquisitor. One day you're slaying demons and darkspawn, and then you're back in the library, reading second-rate gospel.

 

Somehow he ended up here.

 

They had not seen each other for three weeks.

 

It's good to see him.

 

A smile creeps onto Dorian's face. He clears his throat.

 

“Nothing, really.” he says. “I did not come to burden you further, Commander.”

 

“You seem to be the only one.” Cullen sighs, dropping himself into his chair, stretching his back.

 

“I can leave, if you're busy.” Dorian offers.

 

“Oh please, don't” Cullen sighs. “It's been the best moment of my day.” he admits, offering Dorian a shy smile.

 

The remark catches Dorian off-guard, but he laughs quickly enough, as usual and walks to the table. “Is that so? I am sure I can do better.”

 

Cullen smile grows wide. “Please do.”

 

Distantly, Dorian remembers a time when these harmless flirts felt as empty as they were meant – when they didn't make his heart jump like they do now.

 

“So,” he says, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Cullen's desk. “how was your day, honey?”

 

Cullen laughs, blushing. It's the same faint blush he always gets when Dorian pushes this far and Dorian missed that, too.

 

“Well, don't say I did not warn you when I make your ears bleed.” He takes a deep breath. “It all started with Josephine. She's been driving me up the wall with her preparations for our trip to the Winter Palace – what we will wear, who we will visit on the way, what color the sashes should have?!” He sighs. “I don't know why she thinks I care but it's all I can do to stop myself from banging my head against the War Table as she drones on and on – just today she sent a tailor! To take my measurements for the uniform!”

 

“Is that why you're – ” Dorian makes a vague gesture in Cullen's very armorless direction.

 

“Don't make fun.” the Commander says, looking positively miserable, as he shrinks further into his chair. “I feel naked.”

 

“Oh, do you now? Because if I remember correctly, naked looks – ”

 

“Must you bring up that dreadful night again?” Cullen groans.

 

“What can I say? I treasure the memory and gladly relive it.”

 

Cullen blushes harder at that, coughing before catching himself. “I was not done complaining yet, if you don't mind.” he changed the topic again.

 

“Oh, to hear the sound of your voice,” Dorian quotes a poem tethering at the edge of his mind.

 

“About half an encampment has caught a cold,” Cullen launches off again, “Josephine wants to learn me how to dance, and on top of everything – ” he drops his hand onto the table, sending it wobbling back and forth. “my desk broke and I haven't found time to fix it in three blighted weeks.”

 

Dorian smiles fondly as Cullen takes a deep breath after his rant.

 

“The good news is,” Dorian says and disappears under the table, voice muffled by the thick wood. “your desk isn't actually broken.”

 

Soon enough he finds the offending piece of wood lodged between floor and desk and tosses it toward Cullen. “Common enough prank; jam a piece of wood under there, drive people mad with it.”

 

Cullen takes the splinter from from Dorian's hand, scrutinizing the offending piece of wood as if it were a deserted soldier. “But who would do something like tha – ” His eyes narrow. “Sera.”

 

Dorian nods, making a sympathetic face. “And another elf, I'm afraid. I'll give you a hint – It's not Solas.

 

Betrayal flickers over the Commander's face. “Her Worship did th – Why would she – ”

 

“You're not the first victim, if it's any consolation.” Dorian says, recalling a furious Josephine – hadn't that been a sight. And they all thought Leliana was the scary one.

 

Cullen sighs, a smile tearing at his lips. “Just as well. What's done is done, isn't it. I just might have to get back at them.”

 

“Indeed – and do tell me if you do, I'll gladly help.” Dorian says.

 

Cullen hums appreciatively, leaning back in his chair. “I couldn't think of anyone else I'd rather have at my side.”

 

Dorian knows that he means the pranking, but his treacherous heart still flutters. “That's one problem gone then.” he says, voice suddenly rough with . “I could help you with another one.”

 

“Is that so?” the Commander says, and the smile spreading across his face takes off at least ten years. “I didn't know you could heal a cold.” Cullen teases, chuckling to himself.

 

Dorian stands, and walks around the table, smiling down at the older man. “I'm afraid not. But I can spare you the visit of another of Josephine's minions.” He extends his hand. “If you would have me.”

 

“I would.” Cullen says, his smirk sending a shiver down Dorian's back. Oh, the price he'd pay to know if that was intentional innuendo.

 

Cullen takes the offered hand with his own – bare for once, calloused from fights and yet hesitant, gentle in their touch.

 

Dorian tugs on the other man's hand, leading Cullen to the center of the room. He clasps their hands together and raises them, guiding Cullen's free hand to rest on his hip. His own hand curls around the Commander's waist, feeling warmth seeping through.

 

Dorian's fingertips trace the linen of his shirt for a moment, before they come to rest at the small of his back.

 

Dorian looks up from under dark lashes and finds Cullen's lips hanging open, air chafing along them as he takes in a sharp breath.

 

“There is no music,” Cullen says and it makes Dorian smile.

 

“My dear Commander,” Dorian replies, straightening his back, as he pushes his hand against Cullen's back to urge him do the same. “are you really quite so boring that you need music for a dance?”

 

Cullen laughs. His hand rustles the fabric as he slides his arm around Dorian's body, coming to rest between his shoulder blades. He jerks him forward with a sudden push.

 

Their chests nearly touch, stubble brushes alongside Dorian's cheek as hot breath ghosts over his ear.

 

“Lead.” Cullen's voice is deep and rich and it vibrates deep inside Dorian.

 

Dorian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from doing something really stupid like jumping Cullen right this moment.

 

The Commander steps back again, and looks down at him, eyes bright with expectation.

 

Dorian closes his eyes and drags his thoughts away from the depths this dreadful man has pushed them into.

 

Instead he recalls the steps drilled into him at a young age. He takes the first step; after a moment Cullen follows.

 

Another step, a step and a turn, his arm pulling Cullen along, finger's tugging at linen, linen that's too thin to conceal the warmth underneath.

 

Another set of step, step, turn, another – and Cullen grows bolder, swiftly following Dorian through the room.

 

The way Cullen learns, then pushes for more – it's making Dorian's head spin along with their bodies.

 

Dorian takes another turn. His heel hits solid wood, his back collides with the bookshelves – and Cullen follows.

 

They nearly touch again, warm breath ghosting over chins, necks as the Commander crowds him up against the shelf.

 

Dorian's nerves are alight with anticipation. “It seems we have reached the end of this dance.” he says, breathless, all too aware of Cullen's eyes resting on him, tracing his face, his lips.

 

Cullen hums as he lets go of Dorian's hand and gives the man room to breathe.

 

Dorian drops his arms. The rush of air cools the sweat gathered on his palm, and the shelf digs into his back. But Cullen still stands so close and Dorian can't quite bring himself to step aside, to step away.

 

“I'd say not.” Cullen says then and reaches Dorian's other hand. “I'd say it's my turn to lead, if you don't mind.”

 

Dorian licks his lips, swallowing around a dry throat.

 

“Lead,” he echoes the Commander's earlier words. Maker's Breath, he would punch himself for how raspy his voice sounds if it wasn't for the way Cullen's eyes grow hooded all of a sudden.

 

The Commander takes his position again, putting to use what he just learned – and admirably so, Dorian must admit as much. They dance through the room with the mage just holding on and then –

 

Cullen stops in the middle of the room – and damn him for not blundering into something. The hand that's holding Dorian's is on the mage's hips all of a sudden, holding him there, close.

 

Cullen's head tilts, searching Dorian's eyes for _something_.

 

Dorian smiles wryly. This is how this goes then, he thinks. His lips are tingling from sheer proximity to Cullen's mouth.

 

Cullen's eyes close as he leans forward.

 

The first brush of lips is tentative.

 

Dorian feels barely more than a second of pressure, before Cullen's hand comes up to rest at the back of Dorian's neck to pull him in.

 

Cullen's lips move along his, stubble grazing Dorian's chin.

 

Dorian expects wandering hands, insistence, _heat_ to come any moment now – anything but the slow sweetness to stay.

 

The sweetness that tugs at his heart in all the right and wrong ways.

 

Dorian's fingers curl against Cullen's back.

 

Cullen pulls back too soon, he presses a last feathery kiss to Dorian's lips, no more than a soft brush again. Then, he rests their foreheads together.

 

Dorian blinks.

 

There's a soft smile resting on Cullen's lips as the man takes a deep, content breath.

 

It turns Dorian's stomach.

 

Cullen's eyes flutter open but the smile doesn't falter. He looks down at him, and it's soft and gentle and something unfolds inside Dorian's mind – an idea, a vision of a future too reminiscent of a place Dorian swore he would not go again.

 

Something twists inside the mage, something visceral that takes him back to a different time – equally sweet kisses, promises. Dorian takes a firm step backwards as his breath catches in his throat.

 

“I shall leave you to your duties then.” Dorian says hurriedly and walks away as his heartbeat is already thundering in his ears.

 

He hears breath catching behind him, maybe in protest? Does it matter?

 

Dorian slams the door shut behind himself and hurries along the battlements and into the safety of the Keep.

 

Dorian's legs ache by the time he reaches the library, where the books shield him from the odd looks that follow him. He leans against the shelves, willing his breath to calm down – but it's no use, his arms are tingling and his tongue feels like lead.

 

His head drops back against the shelf.

 

“Dorian, you fool.” he murmurs, cursing himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, this was sort of hard to write.
> 
> Tell me what you think? :)
> 
> Oh, and I want to spend the weekend writing, if you have a prompt for me, leave it [here?](http://cptcarol.tumblr.com/ask)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, friends, I am so sorry this took so long, but I'm sick and on my third round of antibiotics. Let's hope this one does the trick. What little energy I had got eaten up by work and school, but now I found a bit of time to bring you this, so enjoy :)

If he's going to strain his neck anymore, it'll keep the position forever. Dorian is certain of it.

Another passerby gives him an awkward look – just bewilderment, not hostility, though and whenever did that change? 

He answers with his best court smile and even gets a reply in kind. The bewilderment lingers, though.

People got friendly with him. No more heads turning pointedly and only a reasonable amount of glares – an amount that could be chalked up to the envy his stunningly good looks naturally evoke. Somehow, between killing all those demons and actually growing to tolerate that brew they served in the tavern, people seemed to have gotten rid of the notion that he was here to steal the Inquisitor's soul. Or worse.

He finds little comfort in the idea, though, eyes flickering to the patch of green below him once more. The canopy almost covers the furniture below, but not enough to conceal that both seats are woefully empty.

Cheerful greetings jerk him out of his musings once more and Dorian cracks another smile as two young maids hurry along, arms filled with freshly washed sheets.

There was nothing of note in this part of the Keep, but the stream of onlookers never seemed to end, as if to ridicule his stealthy plan.

Dorian cranes his neck again, to look out of the window and down into the garden, trying to see through the blooming branches of the trees there.

“Dorian?” 

Dorian winces. He turns and straightens his back to find the Inquisitor, weedy arms full of scrolls.

“Your Worship.” Dorian greets the Inquisitor, casually leaning against the wall.

“What are you doing here?” Denna frowns at him, walking over to where he was hunkered in front of the window a moment ago. She comes close, almost pressing up against him.

“Why are you watching the garden?” she asks, peering out of the window, trying to recreate the angle he bent his head at a moment before.

Dorian barely resists the urge to throw himself in front of her to obscure the window. That would loose him what plausible deniability is left to him. Who knows maybe she wouldn't figure it out.

“Are you – ” she starts, leaning forward a little more, reminiscent of his earlier pose. “are you watching the chessboard?”

“No.”

“Dorian.” 

“Yes.”

“Why are you watching the chessboard?”

“Who says I am?”

The Inquisitor groans and steps back, shaking her head. “You know what, I have an assassination to thwart and I really don't have time to – wait.” Andraste's ass, he had almost gotten rid of her. “Don't you normally play chess with Cullen this day of the week?” Dorian winces, and promptly draws a blank when trying to come up with an excuse. “You do, don't you?”

Blighted elf. He's not weaseling his way out of this one. Denna was like a mabari pup with a new favourite toy when something caught her attention. She could spent hours chewing on it until it burst open, spilling its guts. “Well, as a matter of fact, I am here to get answers to that very question.” he admits, finally.

“Call me old-fashioned, but couldn't you just, I don't know, ask Cullen? I know he's busy with our preparations for Halamshiral but – what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I, uh … it's complicated.” he says.

Denna frowns. “You kissed about a week ago and it's already complicated? Did something else happen between the two of you since then?”

Dorian shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? I haven't spoken to him since then.” 

On Denna's face realization dawns like a particularly bleary day. “Creators, Dorian.”

“And while we're at the, ah, confessions, when I told you about the dancing and the kiss I may have neglected to mention that I sort of walked out without another word in his direction.” 

Denna's jawline tightens as she scrutinizes him. Finally, she let out a sigh. “Well, that explains the war table moping.” She shakes her head and pulls the scrolls threatening to spill over tighter to her chest. “And now you're hiding here, hoping that he will turn up, and if he doesn't, then what? You'll continue to act as if nothing happened?” 

“Cunning plan, I know.” he quips, but it comes out pitiful enough that he makes himself sick. The look in Denna's eyes does nothing to improve his emotional state. During their ensuing staring contest he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything else. Surely he had poured enough of his past troubles onto her; she could fill in the blanks well enough on her own. She didn't need his tear-fueled retelling, especially not this close to the tipping point of a future they both rather dreaded. 

Denna sighs then, gathers the scrolls threatening to spill closer. “You know what, I can't – I have to do things and there's the assassination – I've gotta get these reports to Josephine and – ” Rambling, she makes her way toward the door. 

She turns in the archway, flashing him a tentative smile. “But if he doesn't show, come around tonight. I've still got a bottle of that wine left.”

Then she's gone and Dorian lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

He's not actually as much of an ass as people think, at least most of the time. 

When he can help it. Without too much inconvenience. 

So when Cullen doesn't show – and what a big surprise, too – Dorian doesn't actually unload more of his petty problems on her tiny elvhen shoulders. 

They have got enough to carry as it is. 

The tavern is full that night, and Dorian retreats to the hindmost corner, sipping his beer and doing his best to wallow in the mess he brought down on himself.

The chair opposite him creaks and Dorian tenses.

“Don't worry,” a familiar deep rumble of a voice sounds over the raucous tavern. “I'm not him.”

Dorian looks up to glare at the Iron Bull. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Sure you don't.” the Qunari says through that blighted all-knowing smirk of his. He stares at Dorian over the brim of his tankard, drinking in silence, as the tapping of Dorian's foot against the tavern floor speeds up.

“I'm not talking about this with you.” Dorian hisses angrily.

“Talk about what?” Bull asks nonchalantly, stretching his massive body over the back of the chair, which gives a protesting groan. “I'm just having a drink.”

Dorian grits his teeth at the perpetual grin plastered on the Bull's face, a grin that somehow persists while the Qunari drinks. 

“You're the most infuriating man I've ever met.” 

“I'm just having a drink.” Bull says, raises his tankard and holds it out for a toast. Dorian might be seething, but he does have his manners. He brings up his own mug and clinks them together.

“I'm still not talking to you.” Dorian murmurs after taking a long, long drink.

“Not talking to him either.”

Dorian groans. “I thought you were just drinking.”

“Not talking to anyone really.” Bull takes another sip of ale. “Not even to the Boss and you two never stop yapping at each other.”

“Wring, I spoke to her not two hours ago.” Dorian says a little too triumphantly for such a little success. Bull cocks that up for him, too, raising the eyebrow he's got left. 

Dorian sighs. “If you have to say something, just say it, and spare me your prolonged presence.”

“I'm not saying anything, I just … observe.”

“How positively annoying, unhelpful and indecent of you.” Dorian turns in his seat, turning to look at the middle of the tavern instead, intent on removing the Bull from his line of sight. But the Qunari's form has gravity to it, and it lingers in the corner of Dorian's eyes.

Bull says nothing, just drinks and looks. 

“And I suppose you have it all figured out, then?” 

“You asking for advice, 'Vint?”

“As if.”

“It took you a long while to step out of that little corner of yours in that dusty old library. It won't do you any good to step back in because you got your feet wet in a little rain.”

“Well,” Dorian says around the lump in his throat. “the leather of my shoes is rather delicate.”

Bull says nothing.

Dorian leaves soon after.

Leave it to the Qunari brute to ruin a perfectly good opportunity to drink himself into a stupor.

Dorian packed enough books to occupy himself while 'hiding in his tent all blighted evening', as the Inquisitor so lovingly put it as he turned down her invitation to join the others for dinner.

All the glimpses of the Commander that he catches are fleeting, and barely plague his mind.

In fact, he's amazed at how little he thinks about Cullen. Just know, again. Not thinking about him. In fact, thinking about quite the opposite of Cullen. 

So what if he had managed to ruin everything? It wasn't the first time, and the Commander was hardly the malicious type, so he wouldn't have to worry about nasty rumors spreading or blackmail.

'Ruining everything' in Ferelden was more like 'a slow Tuesday' in the Empire.

That's his state of mind by the time they reach the Winter Palace and all through the night he keeps his position in the garden, slipping into old habits like they were a well-worn glove.

At the end of the night the Empress is alive, and an official ally of the Inquisition – it couldn't have gone better. And yet Dorian still stands at the balcony of the Palace Gardens, overlooking a sea of green, and he can barely breathe.

Ironically, he stepped outside to get some fresh air.  
The joke tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it does nothing for his overall mood. He'd been clinging to Halamshiral, working towards it. It had been close enough to focus on, urgent enough to push aside all other thoughts and now it was gone.

Their next steps were unclear, and all in all they had a moment to slow down. Good thing, one would think. Only Dorian half-wishes Corypheus would come marching up with what was left of his Demon army. Anything, that would put their trip back towards Skyhold, towards lonely days in the library and crowded evenings in the tavern off, if only for a few days.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

Cullen.

Andraste's tits. 

Dorian himself wasn't sure what prompted the blasphemy – the cruelty of fate of him showing up here if the fact that the sight of him warmed Dorian's heart. Both were equally worthy of the curse. There was also the fact that the man looked good enough to eat.

“Her Worship said to be ready for departure.” Cullen says. His shoulders are raised under the bright red fabric of his uniform, his posture is tense.

“I'll be there in a moment.” Dorian replies, turning to watch the sunrise again. He listens for heavy footsteps leaving, but they never come. Instead, there's the awkward shuffle of heels over tiles.

He peers over his shoulders and sees the Commander approaching – carefully, like Dorian was a young deer. It's quite ridiculous, he would not run.

Not again, at least.

“I, ah – ” Cullen stutters, a few steps closer than he was. “I owe you an apology.”

Dorian frowns. “Were you the one who ate the last of those mini quiche then? They were quite formidable but someone emptied them while we were beating sense into those crooks. A tragedy.”

He could see the hint of a smile tugging on Cullen's lips. “No, but if you do root them out, I would like to have a word with them as well. But I meant – ” the man continues, stepping closer. No getting around it then, outside of leaping over the balustrade, Dorian thinks wryly. And only considers doing it briefly. “about what happened, a few days ago. The, you know.”

What an impossible man; it had been such a promising start and now? Ugh, Fereldans. Didn't they know the healthy approach to such matters was sweeping them under the rug and never speaking of them again.

“Ah.” Dorian says, raising his eyebrows, bracing himself for whatever came next. 

“I know I overstepped, you've made it plain enough. Plain enough for me, even. I only want you to know it was not my intent. I misread the situation. Not that I want to make excuses, but I am not the most … experienced, when it comes to … ugh.” The blush already lingering on the Commander's cheeks blossoms and spreads and he rubs the back of his neck, refusing to meet Dorian's eyes.

“Don't trouble yourself with it.” Dorian says hastily. 'Please, just let it go.' is what he wants to add. 'Take me or leave me but don't prod at it.'

Cullen tenses, takes a step back again. “Alright, then I will, leave you to – uh.” He turns to leave, and by all that is holy, Dorian should let him.

But he has never been particularly good and sacrilege comes as easy as breathing.

“Did it help at least?” Dorian asks.

Cullen turns back to him again. “Beg your pardon?”

“The dancing lesson.” Dorian says with a smirk. Cullen's receding blush returns with a vengeance. “Did you woo a young pretty aristocrat or three?”

Cullen laughs nervously. “I am afraid with all that's been happening I've completely forgotten about dancing. Besides, I, uh, am not too partial to strangers with wandering hands.”

Dorian tuts, “So it was all a waste, then? Unless … ” 

Cullen raises his eyebrows as Dorian extends his hand. Dorian tells himself that it's just getting back to their usual flirting, all casual.

It's just getting back to that. Oh, please could they get back to that.

Something twists the Commander's gentle face, as if Dorian had raised his hand in anger instead of invitation, making the man flinch. 

It's not the worst reaction Dorian ever got to such a proposal, but it is by far the most devastating.

“There's even music this time.” Dorian says as the gentle violins from the orchestra drift outside.

Cullen smiles, while there is still deep lines etched into his forehead. “Indeed there is.” he admits, his eyes hazy.

Dorian almost sighs as Cullen takes his hand a moment later, and gingerly places his hand on Dorian's hip. 

Their steps are slow, bumping into each other as their tired feet move over the tiles. 

“I think you were better the first time.” Dorian teases.

“It's not your finest hour either.” Cullen replies, gloved hands resting gently on Dorian's back. Dorian acutely remembers the feel of bare fingers over his shirt and there are worlds between then and now.

“I suppose not.” Dorian says.

They quieten, and slow down, until they are merely swaying, foreheads gently touching. 

As Dorian looks up, he can see the affection in Cullen's eyes and Dorian tilts his head.

Cullen lets go of his hand, takes a firm step back, pressing his arms at his side, rigid and nervous. “I – I should go. Th-Thank you. For indulging me.”

Steps hurry away and Dorian is alone in the vast garden.

He sighs. Oh Maker, he would have to really talk this through, wouldn't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literary symmetry *throws confetti*

**Author's Note:**

> This got so, so far away from me. It was supposed to be a silly fluffy snowball fight to combat the dreary weather. I currently have 11K in this text file. Wtf the fuck, how did that even happen. Uh, but first work in the fandom, what do you think?
> 
> I'm just super glad I'm not the only one obsessed with these two. If you want my eternal love, you can send me a prompt [on tumblr](cptcarol.tumblr.com)!


End file.
